


Shelter Somewhere in Me

by Catwithamauser



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Handcuffs, Light Angst, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9565445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catwithamauser/pseuds/Catwithamauser
Summary: They’ve talked about this, talked about it and agreed to try it and she’s prepared herself as best she can and its still not enough, still not enough for Laurel to ready herself for the ghosts that haunt her mind, for the scars she still bears.Or, Frank ties Laurel up.  Its not as simple as it sounds.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This basically exists because honestly, working through trauma with someone you completely trust/love is both super sexy and yet super unsexy. And hella necessary. And I figure there’s got to be some lingering issues associated with being kidnapped, and I’m a terrible monster who thrives on angst and smut, so, here we go…  
> Its actually not exactly what I was intending with this fic in that its way less of a hardcore bondage fic and way more weird kinda soft-core psychological fic? Oh well.  
> Also, as an aside, generally don’t use silk ties for bondage purposes; they can pull too tight and be a bitch. And if you do, just have some scissors nearby, k? But for fic purposes, I decided Frank and Laurel weren't going out to buy purpose built cuffs for something they might only do once…so, thus using one of Frank’s ties...

She tries not to flinch, she really does, but can’t help the stiffness that blooms across her skin as Frank’s fingers slip against her wrist.

She tries to calm the sudden pounding of her heart, the sudden harshness of her breath, tries to force herself to relax before Frank notices. But he does, of course he does, because he’s attuned to her body as though its his own, because he knows her past, knows the things that still haunt her mind, that still leave scars across her body.

“You ok?” he asks her, voice soft as he rocks back on his heels, pulls his hand away from her skin, unwilling to go any farther if she’s not willing, not able to.

Laurel nods, tries to slow her breathing, closes her eyes for just a moment to remind herself where she is, tries to remind herself that she’s here, in her bedroom, with Frank, with the man who loves her and not sixteen, not bruised and battered and left in a basement to die, left with men who wished her harm, whose touch against her skin were like knives, like fire.

“You sure?” Frank asks, and when Laurel opens her eyes again he’s still back on his heels, his eyes worried and a nervous and crooked smile cutting across his mouth. He looks, she thinks, the thought breaking through the fear tangling her mind, just as nervous, just as worried as she does. That makes her love him, desperately, hopelessly, heart stoppingly, makes her love him to the depths of her heart because his concern for her is always forefront in his mind, always what he puts ahead of his own wants, his own desires. He’s worried for her, worried that it will be too much for her, worried that the hurt still inside her is too powerful, still has too big a place in her mind, crowding out everything else. He’s worried too that he’ll push her too far, that the desire he feels, the wanting he has for her will compel her to something she doesn’t want to do, will hurt her before he can stop himself. It makes her love him so much more, to the absolute depths of her heart, makes her wish she was whole, that she was better for him, wishes she could be strong enough for him that she didn’t flinch at his touch, at the apprehension in her blood for what’s coming, what they’ve talked about and agreed to and yet, and yet she can’t relax, can’t slow the rising tide of panic and fear and terrible memories.

“Yeah,” she breathes, though the tremor in her voice betrays her nerves, her worry and fear and the tension humming through her like a live wire, setting every nerve ending on fire. “I’m sure. I trust you.”

“Ok,” he tells her, reaching out and taking her hand again, threading their fingers together, thumb slipping over hers. “But just tell me if its too much. If you wanna stop.”

She nods, tries to give him a reassuring smile, lets him wrap his fingers around her wrist, tighten his grip just a little, just enough that she can feel the pressure against her skin, just tight enough she knows she won’t be able to break away.

Her breath picks up again, the edge of panic starting to creep across her mind before Frank’s fingers whisper against the thin skin of her wrist, reminding her of where she is, who she’s with, settling her strung tight nerves.

“We still good?” he asks her, his crooked grin slipping a little wider when Laurel doesn’t flinch from his touch, then pressing a string of kisses along her neck, her jaw when she doesn’t pull away, just nods and smiles at him, allows him to continue.

“Still good.”

Frank pulls the tie from his pocket then, slips it around her wrist, not tight, just lets the silk slip against her skin, ghost against her hand, letting Laurel get used to the feel of it.

They’ve talked about this, talked about it and agreed to try it and she’s prepared herself as best she can and its still not enough, still not enough for Laurel to ready herself for the ghosts that haunt her mind, for the scars she still bears.

Frank twists the tie around her wrist, pulls it almost tight enough to worry her, almost but not enough, like he knows her limits, knows them like his own breath, can tell when he needs to stop and pull back from the edge. He gives her an encouraging little smile, inclines his head a little and before she can reconsider or rethink or worse yet, overthink, Laurel slides back on the bed, slides over their soft, soft sheets and back against the headboard until her back, her shoulders collides with it, trying not to feel like she’s trying to vanish, trying to allow the wood of the headboard to swallow her.

“Anytime you reconsider,” he tells her, lingering at the edge of the bed for just a second longer, giving Laurel an extra minute to reconsider, to ask that they stop. “Just lemme know.”

“No,” she tells him sucking in a breath that only has the barest hint of panic in it, sharp and acrid. “No, I’m ok.”

“Ok,” he grins again, moving closer and looping the edge of the tie through the slats of the headboard. He holds his hand out, just holds it out, palm up, waiting for Laurel, letting her have the choice to move forward or to balk, to ask for more time. But she’s had time, plenty of time, ten years and this man who she loves to the fullest extent of her heart, who she would trust with her life, who she knows will never hurt her, not like this, not the way she was hurt before. So she gives him her other hand, turns it palm up and places it in Frank’s, lets him curl his fingers around her hand.

He takes her hand, places it back against the headboard as well, slips the other end of the tie around her wrist, the silk already pulling at her skin.

“Tighter,” she tells him, grits it out against the tightening in her chest that feels like the start of terror.

Frank complies, tightens the binding around her left wrist. “You want me to leave you room to slip out?”

“No,” she assures him in a whisper, voice growing more forceful as she continues. “No. If we’re gonna do this, it has to be real. I can’t have an out.”

“Laurel,” he tells her softly. “You ‘n me set the rules ok. We can do whatever you want.”

“I know,” she assures him, pulling at the ties around her wrists, her arms now tied above her head, making sure she can’t slip her hands free, can’t curl her thumb and wriggle free of the ties. “But I want to do it this way.”

Frank sucks in a long breath, rocks back on his heels again, looks expectantly at Laurel. “We good?”

“Yeah.”

“You need to get out just…”

“Frank,” she snaps, cutting him off, more force than necessary in her words, knowing herself, certain that if she’s any less forceful, any less committed to what they’re doing, to the spirit of it, of letting go of control, surrendering to it, fully, to Frank and keeping none for herself, Laurel knows that she’ll back away, she’ll flinch. “Don’t tell me. I can’t know.”

“Just lemme know then,” he tells her. “Just gimme the word and we’ll stop.”

“Frank,” she says, practically growling out her words. “Stop talking, ok?”

He grins at her, wide and crooked and cocky. “Yes, ma'am.”

She rolls her eyes, pitches forward a little against her bonds, not testing them, no, but wanting to get closer to Frank, needing to be reminded why they’re doing this, why she trusted Frank enough to go to this place to begin with, why he’s the only person she’d trust to do this with. “Will you just fuck me already?”

He looks a little shocked, a little taken aback at her words but grins, wide and bracing and smirking. And then Frank slides forward, slips his knee between her thighs, presses his lips against hers, soft and slow, almost chastely, like he’s testing her, testing whether she really means it.

Laurel growls, wishes she could reach out, thread her hands through his hair, tug hard on the strands, tug hard and force him closer to her. Instead, she nips against his lower lip, hard enough she knows the flesh will swell, forces Frank’s mouth to open, tangles her tongue with his.

She can almost forget the tugging at her wrists, the momentary sparks of discomfort across her shoulders because there’s the sudden blossom of desire pooling low in her gut. Her heart picks up and her breath comes in a harsh little pant and its all right this time, she thinks, because Frank’s teeth are catching against the arc of her collarbone, his lips and tongue following after, soothing the heated flesh and Laurel stops paying attention to anything other than the feeling of Frank’s mouth against her, every nerve ending in her body focused on the things he makes her feel.

His mouth travels lower, lower, lips brushing over the tops of her breasts and for a long, long second Laurel tries, fails to stifle the little giggle that bubbles from her chest.

“What?” Frank looks up, half affronted, half amused, little smirk passing across his lips but his eyes black with desire now.

She shrugs, shoulders twisting a little in their bonds, grin only slipping half an inch as she remembers she’s trapped. “Just glad we decided I should be naked for this.”

Again, he looks a little confused, a little lost before a grin bursts onto his face, recognition dawning behind his eyes. “Oh,” he chuckles. “Yeah. Hard to get a bra off when your hands are tied.”

They’d talked about it, planned through most of the scenarios and contingencies, what knots Frank would use, what material he’d bind her hands with, how Laurel wanted to position herself to keep from cramping, keep as much panic as possible from her mind. And they’d talked about whether she should start dressed, undressed, some kind of middle ground. Frank had suggested dressed, wanting Laurel to know she could stop at any time, give her as many defenses, as many outs as he could in case things became too much. But Laurel, she knew herself too well and insisted they start this with her naked or mostly naked because she knew, too, that she didn’t want to associate this with the things lurking in her mind, the memories more like nightmares, the ghosts that she sometimes thinks have been relearning breath, stumbling back to life. So they’ve compromised and she’s clad only in a pair of black lace panties, slowly edging their way towards ruin.

That ruin creeps a little closer as Frank continues to grin, eyes raised so they can meet hers as he lowers his mouth again, lips continuing their path over the tops of her breasts and his beard rasping against the sensitive skin, her body pressing up against his mouth because she can’t reach out, press his lips closer against her, against the place where she wants him.

Frank’s mouth drifts lower, latches around her nipple, over the puckered skin there, tongue swirling around the stiff bud until she’s arching into him, straining at the ties around her wrists, trying to get more feeling, more wanting, more vicious bursting pleasure. He smirks, she can feel the wide span of his mouth against her, teeth nipping at the swell of her breast before moving back, teeth catching against the peak of her nipple, sending her body pitching forward again.

And its strange, being aware of her bound hands, being aware they’re trapped, held above her head by the silk tie, almost tight enough to hurt, certainly tight enough to notice, and yet, she barely registers the loss of her hands. There’s still a creeping whisper of panic, of fear and long buried grief at the back of her mind, but she can’t focus on that, won’t focus on that, the feeling of Frank’s mouth, of his body and his breath against her so much more powerful, crowding out, overwhelming all the bad things, all the memories that try to drown her.

And not having her hands, not having touch, they just make the feelings expand, make them double and strengthen because she’s at their mercy, can’t stop them, can’t alter or change them, is simply at the mercy of Frank’s whims, of his mouth and his fingers and the things he wants for her, the pleasure he chooses to allow her. She’s not sure she’s ever thought she could come just from breastplay but when Frank’s fingers roll across her other breast, she’s crying out, desperate and panting and the tightening low in her gut, the throbbing between her legs almost becomes too much, almost sends her spilling over the edge.

She always heard that when you lose a sense or had it taken away everything else becomes heightened, but Laurel’s been just about as gun shy about being blindfolded as she’s been about having her hands tied, never did much to test the theory, so she’s always figured it was a bit of an urban legend. Certainly the times she was handcuffed by the men who took her, blindfolded when the moved her from location to location, she never felt like anything was heightened except her fear, the only sounds she was able to hear her own pounding heart and the gasping whimper of her breath. It never did her any damn good, only amplified the terror until it was all Laurel knew, all her mind could understand, until eventually the fear vanished, left grim determination in its place, coal super pressurized until it became a diamond.

Frank’s lips drift back to the hollow of her throat then, across her pulse point before meeting hers again, swallowing her gasps, her strangled moans as his fingers continue to play against her breast, fingernail catching against her nipple as Laurel’s hips jump, as she presses her sticky thighs together, trying to get friction in the place where she needs it most.

He pulls back, just an inch or two, just far enough she can see the wide, smirk of his grin so fucking pleased, with himself, with her, so fucking cocky and if Laurel had much brain power left, had any hope of turning the tables on him she’d do something to wipe that damn grin off his face. Instead it just causes another little arc of pleasure to shiver through her body, just adds to the wetness pooling at the juncture of her thighs, and Laurel may not be able to touch herself but there has to be something, something she can do to relieve the building pressure.

“Please,” she’s begging as Frank catches her lower lip between his teeth, sends a little spark of pain shooting across her mind, distracting her enough she stops rubbing her thighs together uselessly.

“Please what?” he asks, because of course he did because she loves him, so fucking much, desperately, loves him almost beyond her understanding, but he’s infuriating, and a fucking clit tease and all she wants right now is to come and she shouldn't have to say it because its pretty goddamn obvious what she wants.

Laurel’s straining at the ties around her wrists before she knows what she’s doing, pulling desperately forward only to be stopped by the pressure against her skin, by the tightening of her bonds. And suddenly, all pleasure is gone because she remembers, remembers eighteen days of handcuffs digging against her skin, chafing her wrists raw and the hollow, haunting uncertainty and fear and the cold, cold embrace of the basements where she was kept and the click of a gun’s safety being drawn and she’s back there, fighting against her bonds and trying to break free, escape, trying to keep from being small and powerless and scared, panic shooting like poison through her veins.

And then there’s a voice, the same note of panic rippling across it and she must be doing something right if the other person, her captor, is panicking too, letting out low, worried curses, so she fights more against the ties, hard enough she’s sure her wrists will bruise, tries to slip her hand between the ties, free herself.

But then there’s a hand wrapped around hers, fingers threading through her own and she knows the touch, knows it like her own heartbeat, and a voice, low and calm, though she can still hear the fear, the desperate worry lingering behind it.

“Laurel, babe, hey,” the voice is calling. “Its ok, I got you, I got you. You just gotta stop struggling so I can get the ties ok? Just gotta relax so I can untie you. Can you do that for me babe?”

And then his face comes into focus, Frank, worry and fear and grief crowding for space behind his eyes, his hands tangled with hers above her head, working at the knots binding her.

“No,” she breathes out, exhausted and ashamed and with the taste of blood and gunpowder at the back of her throat. “No, its ok. I’m ok.”

“You’re not,” he tells her, though his hand against the tie slows, then pauses, letting her have her say, letting her decide what she wants to do now that she’s in a place to decide. And she loves him for it, loves him to the edges of her heart, the edges of the known universe, because he’s letting her decide, letting her be the arbiter of her experience, giving her the power in a situation where she has none, where he could do anything, everything to her he wants, fuck her raw or let her free and there wouldn't be a damn thing Laurel could do about it. And instead, instead he’s offering her a choice, letting her decide whether they continue on or pull back, letting her decide what is too much for her, giving her all the power, leaving none for himself, understanding, because he’s good and perfect and neither of those things but he loves her, loves her so much, that power and control is what she needs her, in this moment, when she would otherwise have none. “Shit I knew this was a bad idea. Shit.”

“I’m ok,” she assures him, sucking in a long ragged breath. “I’m ok now.”

His fingers are still tangled with hers, and he tightens his hand around hers, strokes his thumb against hers. “We don’t have to do this,” Frank assures her. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I do,” she breathes out, because she does, god she wants to. “I want to. I just, gimme a minute.”

Frank nods, presses a kiss against her jaw, the corner of her mouth, fingers brushing the hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Take as long as you want. We’ll only do this if you want to.”

She smiles at him, a little tight, a little forced but settles her heartbeat, settles her breathing. “I’ll get there in a moment.”

Frank sighs, scrubs a hand across his beard. “You shouldn't have to ‘get there,’” he tells her. “If this doesn’t turn you on, I can just untie you, we can do something that does. Why should we do anything you’re not into. How’s that supposed to be a turn on for anyone?”

“It was,” she whispers, feeling her cheeks color to admit it, but well, she was definitely getting there, was just about as close to coming as she’s ever been without actually really being touched. Its just that she forgot where she was, just for a moment, the memories rushing back before she could put up her walls, stop them from slipping through the cracks, invading her mind. But god, before that she was so damn turned on, was practically writhing, begging for Frank to touch her, would have sold her soul for him to fuck her. “I just, I got caught off guard. I’m ok now. And I want you to fuck me, ok? Please. I want to do this.”

Frank’s lips twist. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he tells her, swallowing thickly, eyes skittering away from her. “If you’re not ready.”

“I’m ready,” she promises, wishing she could reach out, wishing she could simply silence him with her lips, wishes she could slip her hand against his cock, distract him and stop his worry, his hesitation and convince him with her touch that this is what she wants. Instead she has to rely on her words, on the things he can see in her eyes, the language of her body, hope its enough. “Frank, if you don’t fuck me, I’m gonna make you untie me just so I can do it myself.”

He laughs, throws his head back and exposes his throat and all wants Laurel wants to do is slide her lips against his Adam’s apple, all she wants to do is tug at the short hairs at the back of his neck, force his lips back to her breasts.

And he does, because he knows her, knows what she wants and he trusts her, trusts her to know her desires, to know what she’s capable of, to make decisions about how much she can handle. It puts all the power in her hands, to listen to her, to respond to her; even with her arms tied above her head, it puts all the power in Laurel’s palms, to set the terms of this encounter, to set the terms of her own desire.

Frank pitches against her, kisses her deeply, tongue tangling with hers and his hand slipping against her breast again, brushing against the swell. She gasps again, all the desire flooding back, pooling between her legs, not gone, not even really chased away, just lying dormant somewhere within her, a raging fire humming beneath the surface of her skin, a great beast waking with the spring. And then his hand slips down, slips between their bodies, slips against her folds to brush, whisper light against her clit, circles the bud as Laurel cries out again, harsh and gasping, straining against the ties.

It doesn’t send fear skittering across her skin, doesn’t send panic rising in her blood at the pull of fabric against her wrists, instead it just sends desire surging across her body, across her mind, desire and wanting and fierce, fierce love.

Having her hands pinioned intensifies everything she feels, at the mercy of Frank’s whims, his desires, the places he wants to touch her, the things he wants her to feel. And yet, and yet, it makes her feel powerful, it makes her feel impossible, like a goddess with the whole world laid out at her feet, hers for the taking because even though Frank is the only one who can touch, the one deciding where to touch her and what she feels, he’s focused on her, completely, on what she wants, on the reactions of her body and the wanting in her eyes. Every move he makes is designed only for her, only for what she wants, what makes her gasp or cry out or shift her hips towards his touch like a plant seeking out the sunlight.

She’s soaked, completely, her thighs sticky with evidence of her desire, dripping against Frank’s fingers as he circles her clit again, harder this time, slow and languid, his lips sucking harshly against her pulse point, sending a keening cry tumbling from her lips. 

He smirks against her throat, increases the pace of his fingers against her clit, pausing, only for a moment, to slip her ruined panties down her legs, smirk never leaving his face as he runs his hands along the back of her calves, her thighs, up to palm the soft skin of her ass as he slides back up her body.

“What do you want?” he asks, breath fanning hot and gentle at her entrance, so close, so close to where she wants his mouth. Her hips jump towards him, craving the glide of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, needing, desperately, something to relieve the coiling thing inside her. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” is all she can gasp out, all the words she can summon through the haze of her wanting, almost painful now, the ache in her chest, in her stomach, begging for release.

Frank hums, vibrations running across her skin, settling in her bones, heightening the wanting. His fingers still cup her ass but then the slip around her hips, wander, languidly, until his fingers circle the sharp angles of her hip bones, spreading her wide for him. He settles between her legs, brushes his beard against the thin skin of her inner thigh, sending sharp pricks of pain shooting across her skin like ripples across water, leaving her wanting more despite the discomfort, wanting all the things she knows the rasp of his beard against her thighs will bring. Laurel doesn’t know how she can be any wetter than she is, make her desire anymore obvious, but she feels a new little clench of desire, a new little burst of ravenous hunger, of warm need bloom inside her, slip from her body and slide across her thighs like a Pavlovian response to Frank’s beard so close to her center. Her mind, even hazy and thick with wanting, knows, knows what happens next, what comes after the scrape of whiskers against her thighs.

Frank chuckles darkly, reading the reaction of her body like a map, a guide to the things he knows already by heart, soothes the whisker burn with his lips, his tongue, the pricks of pain mixing with the churning desire until she bucks her hips up towards his mouth, towards the pressure, the feeling she knows he can give her.

She pulls sharply at the ties around her wrists, for once reveling in the tug of pain against her hands, the dull twinging ache, reveling in the feeling of being trapped, the feeling of being immobile, splayed out and open for him, laid bare to him, to his wants, his desires, for the things he wants to do to her. There’s only the shadow of fear now, like the outline of something that’s long since faded into nothingness, the lingering scars still there but no new pain, no new terror scraping against the still raw places in her mind, only the building need, only her love for Frank.

Frank’s tongue darts out then, tasting her, licking a long line across her entrance, circling, nipping against her clit, savoring the flavor of her, devouring her, until she’s keening and crying out and Frank’s fingers are wrapping around her thighs, spreading her open to him and laying her bare.

Its too much and not enough, too much feeling and yet not enough because she can’t glide her hands along the span of Frank’s back, can’t feel the play of muscles under his skin against her palms, can’t touch him, can only be touched, can only be a vessel for wanting, for pleasure, can only take and take and take until it becomes too much, until she fills completely with yearning hunger, until it spills over the edges, the sides of her, until she breaks completely from it.

Her fingers are clenched tight, balled into fists, her nails driving deep into her palms, wrists straining against the ties because she wants, she wants, oh how she wants to make Frank do what she wants, make her come, move just a little faster against her, wants to make him slip his fingers inside her, curl them just right to relieve the desperate ache. But she can’t, can’t touch him, can’t do anything but ride the rising tide building low across her skin, savor the desperate ache in her blood. She doesn’t even want to speak, doesn’t want to do anything that might make him slow, pause, make him stop the flick of his tongue against her clit, her entrance to turn his thoughts into words.

But they've been doing this long enough Frank knows her body like he knows his own, her flesh becoming a language he’s fluent in reading and so he knows the things she needs, knows how to separate them from the things she merely wants. And so he’s slipping two fingers inside her, and then a third, pumping her while Frank lets his teeth catch against the aching bud of her clit, nipping at the swollen bundle of nerves until Laurel’s cries become a constant moan, a long broken cry, until they turn silent again, the power even of sound escaping her.

“Fuck,” Frank whispers against her skin, breath fanning against her over sensitive skin, setting her hips canting up towards his mouth, seeking more, always more. “You have any idea what you do to me?”

His fingers continue to pump her but she loses the stroke of his tongue, and Laurel’s eyes close tight, seeking the building pleasure, chasing after it, wanting to feel the tumble over the edge which Frank now seems intent to deny her.

“Open your eyes princess,” he tells her, voice sharp, commanding as his fingers tighten around her thighs, emphasizing his point. “I want to watch you come.”

And Laurel does, can’t resist him, any commands he gives her, opens her eyes and meets Frank’s, pupils black and depthless and shot through with need. And his smirk, still crooked and cocky and his lips, his chin, his beard soaked through with her juices, shining with them and Laurel’s hips press forward again, her whole body seeking his mouth, wrists still pulling at the ties as though that will somehow bring Frank’s lips back to her clit, somehow return the edge of his teeth to her cunt.

“I could come just from watching you, you know that?” he smirks up at her, oh so fucking self-assured and yet, and yet his words are timid somehow, like he’s terrified of the depths of what he feels for her, terrified of the truth of them, not just words he speaks to turn her on, but honest and open and raw. “Just from watching you come.”

“Please,” she begs, her voice far, far closer to a sob than Laurel ever would have thought possible, broken and pleading.

“Please Frank.”

She half expects, in the semi-coherent part of her brain, for him to challenge her, for him to tease her, make her tell him what she wants even though its obvious to both of them, make her beg for what she wants, but he must really be closer than she thought, or she must be closer than he thought or something, Laurel doesn’t even know anymore, because Frank just smirks, chuckles against her skin and flicks his tongue against her clit, long and slow and then again, until it becomes one long continuous stream of pleasure, rolling across her body in waves that build and build and never crest, never break.

“Please,” Laurel pleads again. “God, I need, I need…”

Frank doesn’t even seem to hear her words, doesn’t even slow the slide of his tongue, the stroke of his fingers continuing at an almost brutal pace, as her words break, splinter into pure sound as pleasure clouds her mind. 

And then its Laurel who breaks, shatters, crying out and straining against the ties around her wrists, her hips surging upward against the press of his mouth, breaking under the relentless building heat, breaking and shattering and splintering apart until all that’s left to her is wanting pleasure, white hot and blinding, her walls clenching desperately around Frank’s fingers, her hands straining against the ties, seeking something, anything to ground her, to tie her back to the earth, to Frank, to her own body.

Frank keeps up the stroke of his tongue, his fingers, lets her ride it out, until the last of her cries, her shaking fade like aftershocks, like long slow rumblings across the earth. He places long, slow kisses against the inside of her thighs.

Her body is liquid, is smoke, is boneless and hollowed out, nothing left inside her but pleasure, nothing left inside her but love. The only thing tethering Laurel to the earth, to consciousness are the ties around her wrists, reminding her she has flesh and form, the thing that’s almost like discomfort tugging her back to herself, back to life.

“All good?” Frank murmurs against her hipbone, placing another slow, lingering kiss there, his fingers still tracing patterns against the edges of her hips.

Laurel nods, still straining at the ties because she wants him, wants the weight of his body against hers, wants his lips against hers, his tongue against hers, his arms around her haggard body. “All good.”

He slips up her body, hands going to the tie before Laurel’s words stop his fingers.

“No,” she whispers. “No, not yet.”

“No?” Frank echoes, eyebrows raising, like he’s not sure he’s heard her right.

She shakes her head, teeth sinking into her lower lip. “I want more. Please Frank.”

A grin cracks across his face, pleased and smirking, anticipation and want building in his eyes, the black of his pupils suddenly crowding out the blue. They had discussed this, the more, as they discussed what Laurel wanted, the places she thought there were walls, the places she thought there were edges, discusses the places she knew she couldn’t let herself go, the unexplored frontiers she wanted to discover. And they discussed this, testing her limits and pushing forward, if Frank’s body, if the feeling of his weight on her, his body surrounding her and the scent of him, of them, would be too much, would overwhelm her sometimes tenuous connection to the present, if it would remind her too much of the things she’d feared most in that basement with those terrible men and their terrible threats, their all seeing eyes and their horrible grasping hands. She needed to know, needed to know if Frank, if his body and his hands would ever be too much, ever be not enough to smooth over the lingering scars. She doesn’t know why she needs to, to test herself, to test the limits of the thing between them, of her trust for him, the very essence of her love for Frank, but Laurel’s always been a bit of a masochist, always been a bit too smart for her own good, and so, and so, she wants to know, wants to know if she can handle more, handle the things that remind her, too much sometimes, of the things she’d kill to forget.

But Frank kisses her then, deeply, teeth nipping at her lower lip, one of his hands meeting Laurel’s above her head, fingers threading together with hers, tugging her back to the present, tugging her back to herself. This, Laurel tells herself, is why she wanted more, wanted to test her limits, because Frank always, always brings her back, always cuts through the strangling fog of her memories, always reminds her that she’s strong and powerful and that she’s loved, is worthy of love, that nothing that happened to her, nothing she does and none of her scars make her broken or unworthy, make her less capable of love or strength or fierceness. “Tell me if its too much.”

She nods and presses forward as best she can against the ties, kisses Frank again as he settles her body over hers, the length of him pressing heavy and thick against her thigh. She loves him, god, how she loves him. For making her powerful when she’s at her weakest, for showing her the power still inside her, the power she has over him, over herself.

“No, god, no,” she promises. “Not too much. Please.”

Frank pushes his boxers down his hips then, quickly, eagerly, nothing like hesitation in his movements, his cock already stiff and straining, thick with wanting. For her, for more. She wants to reach out, take him in hand, wants to wrap her mouth around his cock, slide her tongue over the head, but she can’t, she can’t, not tonight at least. Tonight she gets more. Frank slides his hand over the shaft, pumping himself before he positions himself, head of his cock just brushing against her entrance, setting a keening whine stumbling from her lips, having him so, so close to where she needs him and still impossibly far.

Laurel cants her hips, towards him, seeking him, succeeding only in another brush of his cock against her entrance, her clit, sending sparks of desire arcing across her skin but nothing more, nothing like the more she needs. But Frank must have been waiting, for some sign, some signal from her, because he thrusts forward then, buries himself inside her, deeply, his hand still tangled with Laurel’s and his lips sucking desperately at her pulse point.

He makes a little noise like a growl, like a desperate groan, begins to piston his hips, slow and smooth, the feel of him almost too much, her body almost too sensitive after her first orgasm, strung almost too tight. But its not, its not, its perfect, just enough, the thrust of his hips just slow enough to catch the lingering embers of her fading passion, stoke the fires again until Laurel cries out, the sound swallowed by Frank’s lips, drinking her moans down as he fills her, as her walls clench around him, as her hips tighten around his, her heels pressing urgently against his tailbone.

“More,” she pleads, like it’s the only word she knows, the only word her lips are capable of speaking. “More.”

The pace of his thrusts increase, complying always, with what Laurel wants, with what she needs, with the things Frank can read on her skin, the language he deciphers from her body. His hand moves from hers to roll across her breast, her nipple, then slips down her side, back to her swollen, aching clit, rolls the bud between his fingers in time with his thrusts Laurel’s hips meeting Frank’s thrusts, the stroke of his fingers and their moans and whispered gasps mingling and mixing in the silence of the room.

He surrounds her, his body, the sight of him all she can see, the scent of him, earth and spice and smoke, the scent of them, of their mingled bodies, filling her mind until there’s nothing else, nothing else she knows and its not too much, god, nowhere near enough. She just wants more, pulling sharply at her restraints, setting her wrists aching and burning with the strain, wanting him, wanting to touch him, more of him, always. She’d wondered if she’d been reminded of those terrible eighteen days, but she’s not, that fear, that sharp, biting panic crowded out of her mind until she can barely remember why she was worried about trying this in the first place, barely, but still there, still lingering always, the shadow and the scars and the little flare of panic that she turns away, turns her back to in a way Laurel’s not sure she’s ever been able to before, turns her mind back to the lightening crackling across her body, to the pleasure dancing across her skin.

She doesn’t realize how close she is, that she’s careening towards the edge until she’s tumbling over it again, crying out and coming, her whole body shaking around Frank, his body, his cock, his stroking fingers, crying out and kissing him and then he’s following behind her, hips stuttering and tensing and he’s spilling inside her with a harsh, desperate cry against her lips. Laurel’s hands strain against her bonds, pull against the ties, desperate and aching and burning with the need for contact, for touch, with the need to exert her power, her need to feel Frank against her body, to get as close to him as she can, as close to him as possible while still retaining two separate bodies.

He knows, of course Frank knows, because even though he’s collapsed, half on top of her, breathing still harsh and panting, a hand slips up to her wrists, tugs at the bonds and sets her arms tumbling to her sides, muscles aching boneless and bloodless. A high little gasp slips from her lips, her muscles suddenly able to move again, burning with the now released strain of being immobile, wanting nothing more than to remain frozen at her sides, but still, she wraps her arms around Frank, presses him closer against her chest, needing him close, as close as he can be.

But then he shifts in her arms, turns so that he’s on his back and she can press, warm and sinewy against his side, try to burrow beneath his skin. He takes her hand between both of his, thumb pressing along the thin skin at her wrist, working feeling back into her hand her fingers as it slips along the lines of her palm, the webbing of her thumb, fingers soft at first and featherlight, barely ghosting against her skin before pressing harder, insistently against her muscles, working the stiffness, the pins and needles feeling from her skin. Her wrists are still pink though, a little chafed, a little swollen from Laurel’s straining against the ties, too harshly, too desperately, a quiet little ache in her skin, almost sweet in its softness, a reminder for the next few days of what they did, of how she loves Frank.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder, teeth nipping softly at her skin. “I think we’re gonna have to look into some better restraints,” he murmurs against her skin, thumb passing over the inside of her wrist. “If we ever try this again.”

“I’m fine,” she assures him, loving the concern rippling across his voice, the kisses he places against her wrist, her palm. “I like feeling you on me, later. I like being reminded.”

Frank scowls, lips tracing along the curve of her wrist. “You don’t have to hurt to be reminded.”

“But sometimes its nice, the pain,” she tells him. “When its something I get to choose.”

“Yeah?” he asks, smirking against her shoulder, nipping again at her collarbone as though trying to emphasize her point. She tucks her body close against his side, arm thrown across his chest so she can feel his heartbeats under her fingertips.

She nods, tries to keep herself from scowling as the things she’s been trying, hard, not to think about crowd against her mind, creep just a little closer in the darkness, teeth and knives and ill intentions flashing in the moonlight. Laurel tries to banish them, tries to blink and make them disappear, fade into the darkness because those memories should not be here, should not be allowed to crowd against the thick pleasure still twining around her body, should not be given a place beside the desire clouding her mind. She’s not sure the fear will ever fade, not sure she won’t always have a little moment of sharp panic when her wrists are bound or she finds herself restrained. But she knows it doesn’t have to become more than that, doesn’t have to be anything more than a brief flash of memory, the barest hint of grief. She doesn’t have to let it be more, not when she knows what else it can be, how much more it can be. “Not all pain’s bad though.”

“That’s true,” Frank allows, though Laurel detects something like caution in his words, as though he can’t quite decide if he thinks she’s lying or somehow telling him what she thinks he wants to hear.

“Frank,” she tells him sharply, fingers tightening over his heart, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to catch his attention.

“Just because something happened to me doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy this or that getting tied up is, I dunno, tainted for me.”

“I know,” he whispers, voice tight. “I know.”

“Then act like it, ok?” Laurel demands. “Stop acting like I’m gonna break.”

He nods, swallows thickly. “I just, sometimes I’m still amazed by how strong you are. You’re stronger than anyone I know.”

She wants to tell him that she’s not, that she’s weak and broken and sometimes she feels like she’s only pieced back together with something like blind faith and bubble gum, but Frank knows that, knows her on her darkest days as well as the good ones, knows her when she worries she’s becoming her mother, when the shadows are the only things she can see, the empty shells of her memories crowding out everything else. He knows her then too, when she has no strength left, no fight, nothing left inside her that can stand against the dark terrible riptide that tries to pull at her ankles, suck her under. He knows her then too. And somehow, even then, even when it feels like there’s no strength left inside her, Frank sees it, can see strength inside her, brings it forward into the light. He knows, maybe better than she does, the things she carries, the good and the bad, the strength and the weakness, can see the things Laurel herself is somehow blind to.

Instead she just turns and kisses him, fingers sliding through the short strands of his hair, kisses him deeply and hopes he understands the things she can’t say to him.

“It still catches me off guard,” he continues against her lips. “How strong you are. That you could want this, after everything, trust me enough to tie you up, do what those men did. Its gonna take a bit more getting used to.”

Laurel’s jaw tightens and her fingernails drive deeper into the space around his heart, a sharp warning. “You’re not doing anything like what they did,” she snaps, more venom in her voice than she really intended because she doesn’t want any kind of association between this, being tied up by Frank, fucked by Frank while she’s spread out before him, left totally at the mercy of his wants, and what those men did to her almost a decade ago. “You’re only doing what I want.”

“I know,” he says through a little hiss of pain as Laurel relaxes her fingers, trying out a slanted grin again, understanding and reassurance in his eyes. “I know its different, that its something you chose. But I spent a bit of time in cuffs myself and god, I’m not sure I’d want to have someone do it again, even someone I trusted. And my time in cuffs was, well it wasn’t shit compared to you.”

“Not even me?” Laurel asks, her voice small and her stomach sinking and something tight suddenly blooming in her chest that tastes sharp like grief.

“What?”

“You wouldn’t even want me to do it?”

“I’d let you,” he assures her, realization dawning in his eyes, ghosting a string of kisses along her jaw in response. “Course I’d let you tie me up if that’s what you wanted. But I don’t know if I’d like it.”

“And that doesn’t,” he continues quickly. “Have anything to do with you. I trust you, you know I do. I’ve let you do plenty of things to me I’m not sure I’d let anyone else. But I just dunno if getting tied up is something I’d be into.”

“Cause you live to serve,” she finishes for him in a long, slow drawl, smirk sliding across her face because really, that’s Frank down to his bones, a man who derives pleasure from the pleasure of the people he loves, who most enjoys the enjoyment of others. And she loves him for it, for the attention he pays her, her body and her wants and even the things she can’t always say, the things she carries behind silence and stone. She loves him for putting her first, always, because before Frank no one else has, no one else wanted to and she wasn’t entirely sure that was even something she deserved. But well, with Frank, she knows she’s the center of his universe, that her wants are his wants and its powerful and terrifying and she’s not sure how she ever survived without him.

She can be riding his face, she can be on her knees sucking his cock, or tied up and getting fucked until she’s boneless and broken, it doesn’t matter, because with Frank, she always, always has power in her fingertips, never has to worry about losing control, not truly, because he always puts her first, always puts her needs ahead of his own, loves her in a way that gives even as it takes, where surrender is a victory in itself.

And that’s the secret, she thinks, the reason this has worked, why they have worked, as a unit, as a thing joined together by more than lust, more than an insatiable wanting, by something both stronger and far, far weaker, something fragile and delicate that still, somehow, fits the broken, jagged, empty spaces inside her with corresponding puzzle pieces from Frank’s own heart, until they form something new, something powerful and whole and beautiful, something sacred and holy.  
The things in Frank that compel him to service, devotion to her, to the people he cares for, Laurel most of all, makes her able to relax the iron grip Laurel keeps around herself, around her heart and her body and her mind, that keep her separate, always, and cautious and aloof, that keep her from the surrender, from the weakness she sometimes desperately craves.

Its the secret she never would have suspected, never would have imagined, that its sometimes the places she hates inside herself, the places she thinks are ugly and twisted and broken that Frank finds most beautiful, that he can look at and see not something broken, something scarred over and raw, but something with beauty, with grace and power lurking underneath, something that simply needs to be shown the light, shown care and tenderness and devotion. Its staggering and disorienting and yet, and yet, Laurel knows it has to be true. That she and Frank are stronger, so much stronger at the broken places, healing and scabbing over and binding themselves together so much stronger than before. He heals her and she heals him and together, Laurel knows, they are strong and fierce and loved, they are everything the other needs, perfect and imperfect, broken and whole, weak and yet stronger than steel, stronger than diamonds, than any of the things that would seek to hurt them, than any of the linger, fading ghosts of their past.

“I do,” he agrees, a wicked little gleam flashing behind his eyes before he’s kissing her slow and sweet, teeth pulling at the swell of her lower lip and his fingers trace idle patterns against her side, slipping lower and lower across her hip. His words are low, rumbling across her skin and sending a shiver, the first tremors of desire, through her body, pooling across her skin. “So let me serve you. Let me give you anything you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Mountain Goats song “Riches and Wonders” a song described by its writer as: where the narrator “really loves the person [they’re] talking to, but at the same time will never be entirely comfortable with anyone, and it's really terrible…” and y'all if that just isn’t Frank and Laurel in a nutshell…


End file.
